7th day. The wind that had been at us since the pass simply gave up. I looked up from my boots and there was a valley in front of us with no snow in it, which should not be possible at this height, and I said so, and no one answered me. Water so clear I stood at the edge counting stones like a boy. Fruit on the trees that none of us — not the guide, not our botanist, not I — could put a name to. Paths worn into the ground, going somewhere, but no smoke anywhere, no roof, nothing. First it was custard apple, sweet, almost too sweet after weeks of dried rations. Then lavender, cold, coming off the still water. Then cedar, and moss on the cedar, the kind of smell that stays in your coat for days after. We left before light because I was overruled, and I am ashamed to say some part of me was glad to go. When we tried to walk back in, three days later, there was no valley. I have stopped mentioning that I still smell it some nights.
